


Make Your Choice

by asarcasticwitch



Series: Teen Wolf Bingo [5]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Blood Kink, Blood Sharing, Blood and Injury, Blow Jobs, Coming In Pants, Coming Untouched, Consensual Kink, Consensual Non-Consent, Deepthroating, Derogatory Language, Established Relationship, Explicit Language, Explicit Sexual Content, Extreme Pain Kink, Hair-pulling, M/M, Masochism, Near Death, Peter Hale is a Little Shit, Possessive Behavior, Rough Oral Sex, Sadism, Sexual Roleplay, Shooting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-28
Updated: 2021-02-28
Packaged: 2021-03-12 17:54:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,926
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29513514
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/asarcasticwitch/pseuds/asarcasticwitch
Summary: “I told you I’d have you, Peter. I told you I'd own you one way or another.”
Relationships: Chris Argent/Peter Hale
Series: Teen Wolf Bingo [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1837195
Comments: 8
Kudos: 33
Collections: Teen Wolf Bingo





	Make Your Choice

**Author's Note:**

> This is for the 'Wolfsbane Bullets' square on my Teen Wolf Bingo card.
> 
> Honestly, I have no idea where this came from. I'm shocked, but also not? I dunno; the last year has kinda numbed my ability to be ashamed of what my brain thinks about. It was the first thing I thought of for this prompt, so I just went with it.
> 
> It's rough at the beginning, but rest assured, it all works out in the end. Still, the themes throughout are rather dark, so if you are at all dubious, you can check the endnotes for warnings. I tried to skim over the smut, to be honest, as this was proving a real pest to write, but hopefully, I've done okay.
> 
> I don't have a Beta, so there will probably be mistakes. Sorry, but I try my best.
> 
> I hope you enjoy!

The shot rings out through the warehouse, the deafening sound ricocheting off the walls, filling the empty space with the macabre echo. Falling to his knees, Peter instinctively clutches at the wound now piercing his chest, his hand proving futile against the waterfall of red escaping the blackening hole. He looks up, eyes bleeding supernatural blue, sneering at the smirking hunter leisurely advancing towards him, smoking shotgun slung over his shoulder.

The man crouches before him, body language radiating self-satisfaction. Peter casts his eyes to the other side of the warehouse, the damp concrete and rotting wood a better visual than the icy stare boring into his soul.

A finger trails along the underside of his chin, guiding his face back towards the hunter, the ragged nail biting into his skin. "I’ll give you two choices, little wolf, either you suck my cock until I come down your throat, or you can use your hand, and I’ll come all over your pretty face." 

Peter huffs, indignant, nose twitching with disgust as the musky scent of lust assaults his senses. He wants nothing more than to tear the hunter apart, rip him limb from limb, his instincts screaming to maim and kill. But with no one else in the vicinity, the hope of rescue seems like a distant dream; he knows his only chance of survival is to allow the fuckers heart to continue beating. 

And the smug bastard knows it. 

He's in so much pain, his mouth twisted into a grimace, he doesn’t have long until the poison corrupts his body completely, until his heart fills with blood as black as tar and his veins burst, but he's too proud, too _stubborn_ to let the hunter see his panic. 

"Make your choice, Hale,” the man sings, laughing sadistically. “You have less than half an hour before you're dead, now’s not the time to play the martyr." 

“Fuck you, Argent,” Peter spits, fangs itching to extend and sink deep into the hunter’s jugular. 

“Aw, don’t be like that, Peter," the man pouts; Peter would have believed he'd actually offended the man had his eyes not been twinkling with mirth. "I’m the only one here with the means to save your life; the least you could do is be nice.” 

“Fuck. You.” 

The hunter sighs, but his expression doesn't mirror the resigned sound; he looks too pleased for that. “I should’ve known you’d fight me to the bitter end. Come on, all you gotta do is choose, and you’ll have the cure.” 

“How do I know you won’t just leave me here to rot once you’re done with me?” 

“I’m a man of my word.” Argent places his hand across his heart as if the gesture will elevate Peter’s concerns. It does not. If anything, it makes him even more inclined to distrust him. 

The hunter continues, “you do what I ask of you, and you’ll leave here with your life. I swear it.” 

Peter snorts, he would laugh, but he fears the motion would cause too much unnecessary agony. “If I knew you were this desperate to bed me, Christopher, we could’ve resolved this a lot more peacefully.” 

“Oh, come on, that’d be no fun. All the blood and threat of imminent death, it sets the mood, don’t you think?” 

“I should just kill you,” Peter deadpans, face as stony as the ground beneath his knees. “I’m sure hell would be better experienced with company. Even yours.” 

“Ah, but you won’t. You know it, and I know it. You value your life too much." The hunter's smirk broadens at the murderous glare Peter shoots him, internally cursing his own transparency. "Would it be easier if I chose for you?” 

“How merciful of you." 

Christopher shrugs, hand smoothing up the barrel of his gun; Peter can’t decipher if the deliberate way the man’s fingertips brush across the metal is meant to appear threatening or seductive. “I have my moments.” 

Peter takes a second to weigh up his options. Which of the two choices will let him leave here with the highest percentage of his dignity still intact? 

Sucking the man's cock would be the quickest; he's talented with his mouth, no point being modest about it considering his predicament, but something tells him the hunter won't allow him much room to take charge of the situation. He'd probably prefer to fuck his face torturously slow, draw it out, relish in Peter's mortification and seething hatred for as long as possible. Indulge in having a wolf at his mercy for as long as he pleases, making sure Peter knows he intends to own him, even just for the best part of an hour. 

Using his hand would be the easier option—or should he say, the least amount of effort—but it would give Peter the chance to dig himself into a deeper hole, to possibly rile the hunter up to the point of no return. The added humiliation of leaving here with the hunter's come dripping down his face, the possibility of his nephew or any other wolf smelling the claim makes him want to throw his guts up all over the floor. He can do without the disgusted looks, or worse, the _pity_ , like they know—or even care—that he'd never have willingly submitted to a hunter like some whimpering, naive little pup. 

Whatever he chooses, he's going to be wearing the Argents mark; either it'll be seeping into the skin on his cheeks or clogging the back of his throat.

That being said, with his mouth closed, he might be able to get away without the rest of the pack finding out, whereas another's scent directly on your flesh is as obvious as a tattoo, at least until you've scrubbed yourself raw, and even then, it lingers. 

The decision is made. 

Peeling his top lip off his teeth, he sneers at the man, “I’ll suck you off.” 

Christopher smiles brightly, his eyes wrinkling with the force of his grin. “There’s a good boy.” 

“Don’t. Call me that.” 

Uncaring of Peter’s objection to the praise, the hunter places his shotgun on the concrete floor along with the blowtorch he had hidden in the back of his pants. Peter's heart skips at the sight of it, but his focus is drawn back to the human as he stands with all the grace of a shifter, hands reaching for his belt to undo the buckle. The slap of the leather as it’s dragged through the loop makes Peter wince subconsciously; Christopher catches the motion, his eyes bleeding black, dangerous, and hungry, the cloying scent of his increasing arousal almost choking in its potency. 

"You know,” the hunter drawls as he pops open the button of his jeans, slowly pulling apart the material as if he has all the time in the world. “I've thought about this for years. Having you on your knees is as glorious as I imagined it would be." 

"Get on with it,” Peter spits, eyes sparking surreal blue, hands fisted tightly at his sides, claws piercing the skin of his palms to stop himself gouging out the hunter’s intestines. “Talking me to death wasn't one of the options." 

"God, I'm going to enjoy shutting you up.” The hunter parts the zip of his pants in one fluid motion, cock springing free from the denim confines. Peter wants to snipe at the hunter for his lack of underwear, but any nasty retort he had dies on his tongue when the man circles his hand around himself.

Peter tries not to stare; he really does; he planned on a quick assessing glance, enough to give himself ammunition for dishing out his own verbal humiliation, but unfortunately, he's not so lucky. The hunter's cock is long and thick, the man's fingers barely touching as he fists it, coaxing himself to full hardness, white rolling from the tip.

Peter's tongue unwittingly peaks out to wet his bottom lip; he catches himself at the last second, sobering, jaw clenching shut as he glowers at the hunter.

“Well, open up, little wolf,” Christopher coaxes, the soft caress of his voice betraying the wicked gleam in his eyes.

Peter wants to make more of a fuss, his wolf howling at him to fight against every command, but, in the end, his self-preservation wins out. He reluctantly obeys, lips parting as the hunter takes a step closer to him. Christopher hums appreciatively, thumb pressing insistently against his chin, urging him to open wider. He barely gets a chance to prepare himself before the human thrusts in deep, gagging as the tip hits the back of his throat, tears falling unbidden down his heated cheeks.

Christopher has the gall to outright laugh, the movement forcing his cock deeper. “Come on, Peter, don’t tell me you can’t handle-”

Peter doesn’t give the man a chance to finish that sentence, spite driving him to hollow his cheeks and suck every ounce of amusement out of him, gruff moans and unintelligible whisperings of profanity replacing any mocking chuckles. He uses his tongue and lips to draw out little punches of breath from the man above him, resisting the urge to pull off and spit as the first taste of warm, bitter fluid drips into his mouth. He steels himself, taking in as much as he can, praying it'll bring the hunter towards his release quickly, saving him this embarrassment any longer. 

“That’s it,” Christopher approves, hand resting on the back of Peter’s head, looking down through half-lidded eyes, watching as his cock slides in and out of his mouth. “Such a good boy for me.”

Rage bubbles up inside Peter, the praise making him see red. On the next bob of his head, he lets his teeth scrape along the hunter’s sensitive flesh, satisfied at the angry hiss he receives. His victory is short-lived, however, as in the next moment, Christopher’s fingers thread through his hair, grip harsh enough to sting. The man pushes in as far as he can go, until Peter’s nose is buried in the dark thatch of hair at the base of his cock, holding his head steady even when he struggles against the hold.

“You want to act like a petulant little brat,” Christopher seethes, the dark smile marring his features enough to force a shiver to run up Peter’s spine. “Then you’re going to get your face fucked like one.” The hunter uses the leverage on Peter’s hair to yank him almost all the way off his dick before slamming back in until he chokes, hips moving fast and sloppy, setting a punishing pace that Peter has no hope of matching. 

Peter’s heightened senses are overwhelmed, the rick musky scent enveloping him, the lewd slap of skin against skin battering his eardrums. The taste of the hunter’s flesh, the sight of his slackened face as he uses him for his pleasure. It’s all too much.

It’s maddening.

Christopher moves back, Peter almost believing it’s to give him some sort of reprieve, but he isn’t so lucky. The hunter grabs onto the collar of his blood-soaked shirt, ripping the fabric down the middle with a feral growl. Peter is ashamed at how his body reacts to the primal display; the way the hunter’s teeth are bared along with the dangerous look in his eyes would strike fear into any supernatural predator.

“I need to see you,” the man rumbles as he tugs the rags away from Peter’s shoulders, the torn material falling down his arms and landing in a heap on the floor. “So fucking pretty.”

Peter wants to snipe back, but he doesn’t get the chance, Christopher shoving back into his mouth, continuing his brutally erratic rhythm. Peter takes in desperate breaths through his nose whenever he can, swallowing the accumulation of saliva beginning to drown his tongue every few thrusts. Some still manages to escape the corners of his lips, streaming down his chin as he relaxes his jaw and just takes it.

He shouldn't be enjoying this; he knows he shouldn't, but no matter what his inner voice is screaming at him, his body reacts to the derogatory filth rasping from the hunter's mouth alongside the obscene sloppy wet sounds filling the space around them. The ache in his jaw as it’s forced open beyond its limits has his cock rock hard between his thighs, soaking the denim of his jeans. Liquid fire pools low in his spine, threatening to engulf him in white-hot flame, being used as nothing more than a hole for the hunter to rut into, has him dizzy with need.

His chest is still throbbing as the poison mingles with his blood, the cold air sharp against the broken flesh, his werewolf healing proving a menace more than a help as it fails to knit back together, allowing no chance for Peter to grow numb with the ache. What's even more mortifying is that it only heightens his pleasure, every pulse of pain shooting straight to his dick. 

The hunter grunts as his hips stutter, gradually slowing to a dirty grind. “It’s like you were made to suck cock, taking it like such a whore."

Peter glowers, but he’s not sure if it’s because of the word itself or more to do with how his cock kicked in response. Either way, he hopes his expression is lethal enough to turn the man to stone.

Much to his dismay, the hunter doesn’t drop dead nor spontaneously transform into a statue formed of mineral matter. Instead, he just huffs in condescending amusement, giving a harsh shove as if to remind Peter exactly where he is and who—at this moment—is in complete control.

Moving slowly, Christopher places one of his hands around Peter’s neck, thumb sliding back and forth over his Adam’s apple. “I can feel your throat bulging,” the man mutters in awe, mostly to himself. "Fuck."

If he concentrates, Peter can feel it too, the way it expands each time his lips reach the hilt, muscles fluttering around the head as the hunter buries himself deep inside him over and over again, allowing no mercy.

Once he's taken a moment to relish in the way his cock fills Peter’s throat, Christopher's stray hand tangles itself back into his hair. "You're going to be a good bitch and swallow every last drop I give you, even if you fucking choke on it."

Peter whines, the desperate sound ripping from his burning lungs, nails digging into the hunter’s thighs, holding on for dear life. The sting of his claws must cut apart the last thread of Christopher's restraint as one, two more jittering bucks of his hips, and he's coming with a broken moan. He shudders with the shock of it, back arched like a taut bowstring as the hot thick spurts of his release coat Peter’s tongue.

Peter screws his eyes shut at the first salty tang that hits his palette, gulping down everything until the hunter deems himself milked dry. The man doesn’t pull out right away, letting his cock go soft in Peter’s mouth as he basks in the afterglow.

Peter only just resists the urge to bite down.

When he does finally pull back, tugging on Peter’s hair to guide him off, it’s slow and gentle, a complete contradiction to the rough treatment. His hand stays at the back of Peter’s head for a moment, the man looking down at him with an expression Peter doesn’t want to focus too closely on.

It’s unsettling. 

"You going to heal me or just stare?" Peter internally grimaces at the rawness of his voice, each word broken as it rasps from his thoroughly fucked throat.

"I promised I would, didn't I?” the hunter shoots back, snapping out of whatever sick and twisted emotions he was clearly musing over. “Forgive me for getting distracted; you're gorgeous with your lips all swollen, tears glistening in your eyes."

"Get on with it, Argent." Peter bites or tries to, but the threat is weak. He vows not to open his mouth again unless absolutely necessary, unwilling to give the hunter any more reason to be so smug.

Christopher tucks himself back into his jeans before kneeling back in front of him. He traces his puffy lips with his thumb, spreading the drool that escaped the corners. His hand moves downwards, fingertips skating along his collarbone, down to his peck, circling his hardened nipple. His touch is disgustingly featherlight, coaxing Peter into a false sense of security as in the next second, his hand moves back up again, and without warning, he presses the digits into the torn skin at the edge of the wound. 

Peter cries out, but Christopher just pushes harder. “I’m beginning to realize patience isn’t your strong suit, is it?” the man huffs out a laugh, voice contorted with perverse awe as he rummages through the blood and shattered flesh. “I guess I should be a little sympathetic,” he continues distractedly, voice tapering to nothing more than a breathy whisper. “Your veins probably feel like they’re on fire, huh? The pain almost too much to bear?”

The hunter doesn’t give Peter the chance to reply; he just leans forward, licking upwards from the blackened vein pulsing from the wound, his hot wet tongue following the protruding dark web towards the side of his throat. Christopher nips and bites the tendons of his neck, placing sloppy kisses into the skin. He mouths his way to Peter’s earlobe, nibbling it gently between his teeth, before moving impossibly closer, whispering his next words directly into his ear. “I told you I’d have you, Peter. I told you I'd own you one way or another.” 

Peter lets out a small expel of breath, gasping in a mixture of pain and pleasure, the softness to the man's possessive words sending a thrilling spark straight to his gut. Christopher sits back on his haunches, reaching behind himself to pick up the blowtorch he’d left lying there as a taunt. Peter tries his best not to tense up when the hunter lights it up, the roaring blue flame making his heart skip in his chest.

“Just checking it works,” the man teases as he lets go of the trigger, smirking at Peter’s glare. He slips his hand into his jean pocket, pulling out a small handful of purple powder—the petals of the wolfsbane plant ground up into ash. 

Peter watches intently as Christopher swipes his thumb through the contents in his palm; none of his movements or actions rushed, just another attempt to torment him. “This is going to hurt,” he warns after a moment.

Peter rolls his eyes, hoping to convey the sarcastic “no shit” that he’s only just managing to keep locked inside his abused mouth. With one last throaty chuckle, the hunter rubs the gritty substance into the gaping hole, making sure to draw it out as long as possible. Peter clenches his teeth together until his gums creak, grunting as Christopher’s fingers prod at the gash on his chest, almost clinical if it weren’t for the sadistic grin turning the corner of his mouth.

"Would you look at that?” The hunter sniggers cruelly, gaze leering towards the pronounced bulge in Peter’s jeans. “You like sucking my cock, little wolf? Or is it the torture you get off on?" 

"Get fucked." 

Christopher extracts his fingers from the wound, hand now coated in a mix of Peter’s blood and wolfsbane ash. He trails the sticky digits down Peter’s chest, a red stream left in their wake, grinning wolfishly as he palms the bulge in his jeans. Peter can’t help the groan that leaves him, hips jerking upwards to gain more friction, momentarily consumed by the wave of pleasure washing over him. He hadn’t realized his eyes fluttered shut, only noticing his mistake when his lids snap open at the puff of breath ghosting over his lips.

The kiss is unexpected, Christopher diving forwards to lick into his mouth with desperate urgency, greedy to taste himself while coating Peter’s tongue in the remnants of his own blood. He gets lost in the feeling, so startled that he doesn't have the capability to refuse. He should pull away, thrash and squirm until the man lets him go but somehow, he’s frozen on the spot. He’s so distracted by Christopher’s mouth on his that he doesn’t make out the sound of the hunter lighting up the blowtorch once more, only jolting back to coherency the second the flames sear into his flesh.

Peter rears his head back, his bloodcurdling roar shaking the very foundations of the warehouse, his muscles tensing as he comes hard into the confines of his jeans. The intensity and suddenness of it startle him, his body trembling and shaking, fangs extending as he struggles to control his shift.

Only when the shocks begin to taper off does he arch forward, hands hitting the ground as he doubles over, panting breathlessly. He's distantly aware of his skin knitting back together, the wound no longer blistering, just a phantom ache as if it were nothing but a dream. 

Everything becomes a blur, his head swimming, drowning, floating all at once. It’s as if his soul has left his body, the apparition just staring down at him from the clouds as he shatters apart, only coming back to him when he finally succumbs to the serenity. His muscles slumping as he relaxes fully into the feeling of peace gradually consuming him.

Peter’s not sure how long he stays in that hunched position, basking in the afterglow; it could be minutes, it could be hours, but eventually, gentle fingers trail across his heated cheeks, lifting his face upwards. Concerned eyes assess him, the hypnotizing blue calming him further. "You alright?" 

Peter sways a little, a lazy smile splitting his face. "Perfect." 

Chris snorts, leaning in to rest their foreheads together, casually nuzzling. “I can’t fucking believe I let you talk me into that.” 

“You seem'd to 'njoy yourself well enough." 

The man brushes his lips over Peter’s, hands still cupping the sides of his face, a grounding presence, voice a gruff whisper, "not the point." 

Had Peter the mental capacity to put together yet another intelligent(ish) sentence within such a short time span, he'd have reminded the hunter—for the umpteenth time—that the wolfsbane concoction he used only mimics the effects of the deadly variety. Considering the man was the one to acquire such a thing, it shouldn't need to be revisited, but Peter guesses he can just blame the human's momentary lapse in proper function on the fact he's just had his brains sucked out through his cock.

That and he's too come-drunk himself to chide him on the issue right now. 

“Most people class a pain kink as spanking, maybe even whipping,” Chris drawls, choosing to ignore Peter's unspoken lecture. Which, _rude_. “Not being shot.” 

Peter finally manages to muster the strength to sit up straight, wincing slightly but still smirking in a way that the hunter would call infuriating. “M'not most people.” 

“Christ, don’t I know it.” 

Peter winks at the man, delighting in the customary headshake he receives. “That’s why you love me.” 

“Shut the hell up, Peter." The retort is huffed through an exasperated sigh, accompanied by an eye roll bold enough to rival any of Peter’s own. Still, they both know that the fingers tenderly caressing his jaw and the soft, fond smile curling the hunter’s lips reflect his true answer. 

'Yes, it is.'

**Author's Note:**

> Warnings (contains spoilers): Peter likes to be shot. Or at least he has such an extreme pain kink that spanking just ain't enough for him. Chris shoots him with a wolfsbane bullet, it's mentioned that he will die without the antidote, but that's just part of the roleplay. In my head, I imagine Chris, as a hunter, is able to get his hands on all manner of wolfsbane concoctions, so for the sake of the fic, the type he uses here just mimics the effects of the real thing without the whole death part. Chris gets him to choose one of two sexual options to perform on him in exchange for the 'cure'. While this is set out as dub-con or even non-con, rest assured they are in an established relationship and have discussed this at length beforehand behind the scenes. Peter can heal; he enjoys the idea of being weakened, likes the pain of it, the control Chris takes, the scenario, everything. If he ever felt uncomfortable, he'd safe word, and it'd stop. If after this explanation you still aren't sure, I'd just avoid this fic entirely.
> 
> I would also just like to add that I know I didn't use the correct way of burning out wolfsbane from the show, however, Peter wants to be subjected to as much pain as possible and Chris is happy to oblige. Hence why Chris rubs the powder into the wound AND scorches him with the blowtorch. It's backward and doesn't make much sense, I know, but what Peter wants, Peter gets, Chris has learned not to argue. The concoction Chris acquired for this particular scenario would have flushed out of Peter's system on its own, but where's the fun in that? If they're gonna treat it like a life or death situation, it's only right to go the whole hog.
> 
> Please let me know in the comments if I've missed a tag, I'm only human, and sometimes I forget something.
> 
> Come visit me on Tumblr at [asarcasticwitch](http://asarcasticwitch.tumblr.com).
> 
> Stay safe, and thank you for reading!


End file.
